The Seventh Year
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: In a world where The Potter's were never killed by Voldemort. No horcruxes, full education and a fair battle worthy of Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter. Before, Harry had only been challenged by Death Eaters, and not Voldemort himself. But in his Seventh Year, Harry Potter will face the Dark Lord at last.
1. Chapter 1: Dark Lord's Plans

_**In a world where The Potter's were never killed by Voldemort. No horcruxes, full education and a fair battle worthy of Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter. Before, Harry had only been challenged by Death Eaters, and not Voldemort himself. But in his Seventh Year, Harry Potter will face the Dark Lord at last.**_

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 **Chapter One: The Dark Lord's Plans**

They all sat at the table, faces made pale by the dim, flickering lights, watching each other while also taking great interest in the door, keeping eyes on it; the one through which he would walk and fill the remaining and final seat. Ears were trained to hearing the slightest of movements, the creak of a stair or shudder of breath or sweeping of cloak - things which would suggest his coming; signify his grand entrance on this chosen day. And, at the twisting and clicking of the ornate doorknob at the end of the room, they pushed back their chairs, scraping along the cold stone floor, and stood to greet their master.

His long cloak flowed noiselessly behind him as he walked.

In silence, he took to his chair, long white fingers clasped on the wooden back of it, black cloak inches from trailing the flagstone. He surveyed them, dark eyes flitting from one to the next. His Death Eaters, he noticed, glanced at points above his head, or beneath it, or even admired the sparse objects decorating the room. They knew better than to look him in the eyes.

But, as soon as he dragged back his chair and moved his cloak to sit, the others did too. As though their eyes had never wandered astray.

The silence continued moments more as they took in one another; what the last month or so had done to each of them, but no one uttering murmurs of worries or kindness. For they were waiting for Lord Voldemort to speak.

"You may ask why I have called this particular meeting, so short from the last," exclaimed Lord Voldemort, his voice high and cold and clear, as though making a speech rather than addressing his closest and only friends. There was yet more silence from his fellows, and the man seemed pleased with this. Unwavering loyalty was pleasant; as was a lack of questioning. A ghost of a smile seemed to snake across his features, but only made his pallid face more terrible. He continued, "This is to address the year ahead, and at the end of it, Potter."

Lord Voldemort's thin nostrils flared slightly at the thought of the boy. Supposedly destined to be his downfall. But Lord Voldemort was the most powerful wizard, and the Potter boy was chosen, brought up to die by Voldemort's wand.

"Harry Potter, my lord?" asked a deep and weak-voiced man from three seats down. A middle aged man with streaks of grey hair and a wrinkle or two around his thin lips.

What a _stupid_ question, thought Voldemort.

"Of course Harry Potter, Avery you fool," bit back Voldemort harshly. He did not try to meet Avery's eyes for he knew they would be far from his own. Possibly even glancing behind to avoid any sense of temptation he may have.

Lord Voldemort relished in the uncomfortable silence that meant him power. He basked in it momentarily before tuning back to the large table of Death Eaters before him. Each one, supposedly loyal, and each one so determined for his approval. Oh it was sickening. The admiration he could handle, he was great after all, but the want of his approval; for his _love_. The idea disgusted him.

"My fellow Death Eaters," he began, glancing at them each in turn. "This is the year I will vanquish Harry Potter."

Beside him, he heard Bellatrix Lestrange utter a barely-audible gasp, and her hand twitched in glee. He knew of her dark visions and her want of eternal destruction. But she would only be allowed such wonders once the Potter boy was dead. Once Voldemort had won fair and square, then the world would burn in screams. Like her dreams so vividly and disgustingly held. Her hatred was almost as putrid as love. She was eager and loving of pain.

"Sixteen years ago, this all began. Severus delivered his piece of the prophecy and I knew that Harry Potter was the boy. I knew that we would duel and he would die. But I would not kill a baby; not be bullied into murdering a child because a wispy woman said he might kill me." Voldemort laughed coldly and his Death Eaters tittered a slight. "I informed the Wizarding World of the situation. That I would withdraw all attacks until the boy is of age and has completed his education. That no one would be hurt. For now," he added cruelly. "Many of you claimed the imperious curse, and some went to Azkaban for me; for the cause. And I waited these sixteen years. While Harry Potter is being taught everything anyone can teach him. In his ridiculous attempts to try to defeat me."

He laughed lightly again, hardly smirking, but doing so at the thought of the seventeen year old boy, desperately learning spell after spell in order to kill him. To Kill Lord Voldemort. How completely ridiculous.

"My lord, what about Albus Dumbledore?" asked a drawling and nervous voice six seats away from him. His white hair fell in thin curtains around his face. Shaped the sallow features of Lucius Malfoy. The woman next to him appeared to be holding her breath, as if waiting for some unpreventable lightening bolt to cast him dead on the spot. Narcissa Malfoy, his wife. Her streaked black and blonde hair pulled into a loose wrap at the back of her head. She squeezed his hand beneath the table; a warning to him. For Draco.

"Lucius, dear friend, what about him?" asked Voldemort, piercing eyes baring down on him and only him.

The blonde man was lost for words, unable to form a coherent reason that might please his master. Simply because there wasn't one. Lord Voldemort would not want to hear of the more powerful wizard being at great power, or about his connection to the boy of the subject, Harry Potter.

"I merely meant that he will try to help the boy, my lord," uttered Malfoy in a broken and rushed whisper, not wanting to say more than he dared. And Malfoy dared very little; and only enough to keep him alive.

Lord Voldemort measured him, analysed the movements. The short breaths Lucius took and the cast-aside views, and his ever so surreptitious glances towards Narcissa, as if seeking her approval. Fear. Fear coursing through Malfoy's veins. Pure, unadulterated fear. Grasping him by his esophagus and squeezing until he could no longer breathe. Pouring coldness over his stomach, his chest and through his body. The fear that meant that Voldemort was as powerful they all said he was.

"Then let him" he laughed coldly again, and his Death Eaters followed suit, some leaning back in their chairs to pretend to be relaxed. "Surely you do not think that Dumbledore is a match for me? Lord Voldemort?" The silence that followed was near-deafening. The laughter died in the air and the near-comfortable figures became taut and frozen from a mixture of shock and horror, and fear. Lucius was stunned. His pale face was whiter than the marble of the columns in the room, and his eyes were wide.

"N-no, no, of course not, my lord," he stammered, unable to control the quiver in his voice.

"Hush Lucius," demanded Lord Voldemort. The man was silent. Lucius had had his comment. "Potter will receive any help he might have to prepare, to show that I am, of course, the better wizard. If it is Dumbledore that helps him, then so be it. If it is one of those insufferable mudbloods, then so be it. I will give him a fair fight. To prove that I am the powerful one, the one victorious of that prophecy."

There were hums of agreement around the table.

"Severus?"

"Yes, my lord," answered the oily voice of Severus Snape, his greasy black hair draping his face, hooked nose and drawn features that come from years of scowling.

"The boy knows of his fate. His parents are alive because of it." Severus glanced briefly at the table, before gaining composition once more. "He will have been brought up to face me. You must make sure that he does not leave the school to escape it and forgo his magical training."

"Of course, my lord," replied the man named Snape. "If the boy is as arrogant as his father then he will undoubtedly stay anyway. To try his luck, my lord."

"Wonderful," crooned the high cold voice of Lord Voldemort, again watching his Death Eaters. "And what will you tell the Ministry, Pius?" Voldemort turned to the pointy-faced, bearded man at the other end of the table to him. He was composed, but Lord Voldemort sensed the underlying nervousness that his presence issued.

"Whatever you wish, my lord," responded the man.

"Nothing too similar or dissimilar of the truth, no doubt," murmured Lord Voldemort, rolling his shoulders a little for the stiffness of sitting. "And so now, my fellow Death Eaters, I will wait a matter of months. Let him be educated and examined and prepared. Let him try to find ways to defeat me. And then, Harry Potter will die. He will face me and then he will die."

The Death Eaters embraced the silence, welcomed the destruction that was undoubtedly soon to follow. Ever closer.

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 **Hey there! This is my new story! I thought I would post this and see what happens and maybe you can all tell me whether you want to see more of this world! If you have any questions/queries, don't hesitate! PM or review and I will get back to you! I intend to change POV and maybe the viewpoint - like, switch to first person.**

 **I have already written a couple of chapters, so hopefully updates won't be too far or in between! I hope you like it!**


	2. Chapter 2: Midnight Correspondence

**Chapter Two: The Midnight Correspondence**

A pale blue light emanated from the end of a wand, and flickered as it rolled silently across the paper-strewn desk, flaps of parchment creating the change in light which stirred the girl. Frizzy haired and pretty faced, the girl's fingers traced the etchings into the desk, the other hand following the movement of her wand, sleepily but wary. Few brunette strands grazed her exposed forearm and tickled like spiders. She disregarded this and whispered a gentle word, hearing a sudden creak of the house.

Her light shut off immediately.

Hermione Granger's room was plunged in deep darkness, the shadows creeping up on her tiredness, threatening to overtake, despite the task in hand. Streams of moonlight were her only source of illumination now, and her parents could't find her like this - a letter on the desk and quill poised. Her intelligent eyes tried to scan the tracings of ink sprawling over the parchment. Thick, wet black on dry brown-yellow.

An eagle owl was perched elegantly on the edge of her desk, bright amber eyes watching her movements carefully, as they slowed with lethargy. She glanced up at the owl, bathed in moonlight. It was a beautiful creature, there was no doubt about it. Light and dark patches of feather covering it, and the two tufts of black feather on either side of it's head. This reminded her of her messy-haired friend, Harry Potter. His jet black hair was always out of place.

The strong temptation of sleep pulled at her, but the owl nipped impatiently at her fingers. It was, after all, waiting for her to finish the letter.

Once she was convinced of the lack of movement outside of the room, she lit the wand again.

"Lumos," she murmured, filling the room with he same pale blue glow and bettering her vision once again. The light made her eyes ache, but she persevered. At least she could see the words. Her brief words she had penned minutes ago, in her haste to have the letter returned in time. Upon glancing at the clock, she knew that still had time.

She read it through once more and signed it. Then, Hermione sealed the letter by tapping it gently with her wand, and attached it to the letter. It gave a brief look at her before fluttering from her window, back to her master before the pale light of dawn broke over them.

As a seventeen year old witch, Hermione Granger was allowed to do magic whenever she pleased - within the boundaries of the law - but she was careful with it, though thankful. Sighing gently, she uttered the 'knox' to put out the light and pulled the window until it was only open an inch or so. Precaution and for the heat of the summer night. A breath of cool breeze stretched into the window, causing unceremonious goosebumps along her exposed skin. She dragged the dressing gown closer, the room completely dark once more.

The ancient floorboards protested weakly as she creaked back to her bed, covers strewn haphazardly in her haste to reach the owl at the window. At the duvet's edge, she slumped, falling backwards into the softness. Moments before sleep, she stowed the wand on the small shelf of the bedside table. Just for safe keeping. It was unlikely that death eaters would come at this hour. They never had before. But she should be prepared for anything.

Sleep fell quickly in her tiresome state, fluffy gown still donned and ink splotches that had danced on her palms from hurried scrawling.

Of all people, him. And, of all things, an apology.

Since discovering that she was a witch, Hermione Granger had face a great many strange and wonderful new things, with an avid desperation to learn everything of the magical world, but this was something entirely new. This was something foreign.

A tall, shockingly blonde boy, with a drawling voice. The one who had called her 'mud-blood' so often - the height of offense in the Wizarding World - apologizing. Apologizing for his father, and for his words and the deeds and treatments he expelled over time. Apologizing for exactly who he was. Son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy.

Hermione did not dream that night as she had done every night before, but awoke to the sounds of the hustle and bustle of the muggle world's mornings. The buzz of the radio downstairs, smell of strong tea and coffee, creaking of floor as her parents moved about in their hurry. It was early enough that they were moving, but not quite out of the door and en route to work. But it was late enough that she did not feel as if her eyes were corroding from tiredness.

She reveled in this and that fact that she was home for the summer with her parents, and left the room to get breakfast for a long day of school work and readying for the journey to the Burrow later that day. Her trunk was not yet completely packed, and she still had another essay left to conclude. Gordic the Great against the wizards of the Soviet in the early fourteen hundreds.

Draco had been informed of her plans, but she didn't expect a reply from him possibly ever again. Now he had been reminded that she 'consorted with blood traitors' and was a mud-blood', and was friends with Harry Potter. Who was Malfoy's enemy. Of course he would not respond. She would be deluding herself if she thought otherwise.

Hermione poured herself a mug of tea, buttered some toast and sat down, thinking. In the time it took her to finish breakfast and wipe any tiredness from her mind, her parents had kissed her, hugged her and bad farewell.

Back to it, Hermione thought, stashing the plate and mug into the dishwasher. These things really would amaze Mr Weasley. Perhaps she could show him how to use it.

It wasn't until much later that her parents arrived home, the sky turning to dusk and orange street lamps blinking to life, which meant there was barely an hour until the Weasleys were scheduled to arrive to take her to the burrow. They had always come by floo powder before, but this time she was sure that they might allow her to apparate. Since she could, and she was allowed. Why not?

Her essay was complete, the things in her room ready.

"Pack," she called loudly, and swished her wand in an upward motion, concentrating on the objects she needed to pack for the year. The miscellaneous things around her room darted into the air and neatly assembled themselves inside her trunk. She smiled, pleased, and shut the clasp of metal. She sealed it with her wand for good measure. No need for anyone to be poking around in there.

A soft tap came from the window and, at first, she thought it might be Ron playing some awful trick on her, but it was not the fiery-haired friend. It was the amber-eyed owl of the night before, watching her and indicating to a sealed letter on it's leg. She tried not to roll her eyes, but opened the window anyway and the owl jumped inside. It held out it's leg so Hermione could pull off the letter easily. She unsealed it with a tap of her want and began reading as it spilled out onto the table where her books and parchment had been moments before.

 _Unfortunately, I cannot write while you are there. Sorry. Enjoy the rest of your summer_

 _See you back at school,_

 _Draco_

A short, but nonetheless surprising, note from Malfoy. She hadn't expected a reply at all, and even less so of the same day. It was more risky that way. She had deducted that he live close by from his quick replies, but it was an odd thought nevertheless. And the note left her torn. It was painstakingly polite. But Draco Malfoy was an enemy; he always had been. He had called her innumerable names over their six years at Hogwarts, and he had been rude to both her friends as well.

Her parchment was packed though. So, instead of going to her case and opening it, she turned over the paper and pulled a biro from the pot on the shelf beside her. His owl was waiting and the Weasley's would be there soon.

 _I understand. Have a wonderful summer and school year_

 _Well wishes,_

 _Hermione_

She wanted to say that she was sorry she wouldn't talk to him because of her friends, but they shouldn't know. They would hate her for this. For 'dancing with the devil'. She wanted to tell Malfoy that she knew that he would never talk to her again, but that was okay.

The owl leaped from the window, Hermione's note attached to the back of the letter. She watched it go, apprehensive.

As the last of the shape on the sky disappeared, the doorbell rang, the sound sailing up the empty staircase. It must be the Weasleys. Her mother answered the door in the usual, cordial British way, 'hello, do come in, would you like some tea', and Mr Weasley, she heard, was intrigued, as ever, by their home, but rejected the offer kindly.

"Hermione?" her dad shouted from downstairs. She smiled, again glancing at the sky for a sign of the owl, before heading downstairs to greet Mr Weasley and his entourage, her trunk in tow. Mr Weasley beamed at her, but there were a few noticeable differences about him. The receding line of flaming red hair, the new additions of wrinkles tracing his features, and the smile withering a little with time.

Hermione smiled back and looked at the rest of them; took them in. Ginny, Ron and the twins were also there, an unexpected surprise. A nice one, nonetheless. In a matter of moments, she was engulfed briefly by a hug from Ginny and surrounded by the light laughter of the Weasleys.

"Hello Mr Weasley," she addressed the others too, with smiles.

A conversation later and they were ready. A further amount of hugging and kissing from her parents, before she took a pinch of floo powder and was hurriedly uttering 'the Burrow' into the green-glowing flames. There was a sense of choking as the ash swirled around her in dizzying patterns, the dancing and flying of different fireplaces racing before her eyes until they finally set on the burrow and she forced herself to step from the flames into the kitchen.

She briefly wondered whether Harry was there too, but knew his parents would be wanting to teach him everything they could before he left for Hogwarts that year.

Because this was the year he faced Lord Voldemort.

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 **Not a strong chapter, I am sorry, but the only way is up. I'm still getting to grips with writing the characters so it might be a bit of a shaky start, but here's to perseverance. In the words of Mad Eye Moody, constant vigilance.**


	3. Chapter 3: Birthday at the Potter's

**Chapter Three: Birthday Party At The Potter's**

The day of July 31st began well for an early start. Brilliantly, in fact.

Harry Potter was awake and out of bed at seven in the morning, dressing quickly and then ran, quietly, down the carpeted stairs to the kitchen where he greeted his father, James, and a slice of toast hurried by magic. Both Potter's were out of the house by eight-thirty. James left a brief but informative note for his sprightly red-headed wife, Lily, resting on the breakfast table, scrawled using a biro - as opposed to a preferred quill.

 _Lily,_

 _Harry and I have gone to Kirkmore fields. No muggles for miles.  
Spot of quidditch. We agreed to let you rest. Be back around twelve,_

 _Love,_

 _James_

The two messy-haired, bespectacled men took their brooms upon their shoulders, one still an inch or two shorter than the other, and stepped out into the sunlit garden of their cottage in Godric's hollow. The dewy grass glistened as the sun broke through the tall, leafy trees. Shades of the pale flowers changed in the yellow glow. From pink to orange and then to red. Then again, they weren't ordinary flowers.

As Harry gripped hold of his fathers arm and tightened the strap of his rucksack, James turned to him, smiled and said,

"Happy Birthday, son."

Then they disapparated.

Both men turned on the spot and felt the same suffocating feeling of apparation. Almost as if their lungs were being crushed into an infinitely small space and that their bodies were being molded into unthinkable shapes. Harry concentrated hard on Kirkmore field and the expanse of green and the memories he had of there - he tried not to think of feeling very sick indeed.

He was dizzy when they arrived in the vast open space. The broadness of the scene was strange after spending the last month in the jumbled and crowded rows of houses in Godric's Hollow. It felt a little more like Hogwarts and very much more like freedom. There were no trees and no shade cast there. Just space. Space enough to throw around some enchanted and highly devious tennis balls.

And, three hours later, as promised, the father and son apparated back into the garden, caught in the eyes of Lily Potter. Stern-faced but generally cheerful, she stood from the wicker chair in greeting. The men glanced at each other in apprehension before meeting her calculating green eyes; ones that matched Harry's exactly.

"James, you know he's not supposed to apparate," she said slowly. Signs of danger. Harry felt that unsettling tightness and tension he always did when his parents might potentially argue for one of those rare times. He didn't feel like being around, but couldn't make his feet move from the spot. So he stayed, poised to run just in case things got a little more than his parents may have bargained for.

"Lily," James sighed, settling down his broom and rucksack and turning towards his wife with more caution than usual. She had been a little on edge for a couple of months now - Harry had sensed it since getting off the train at the end of his school year. "He's seventeen now. He can use magic without being traced." Lily Potter looked as though she might interject with more logic, but James continued. "We all know Harry hasn't passed his test. But he will. And he can apparate perfectly well."

Despite his often dizziness after apparation, no one could deny that Harry's apparation was perfectly acceptable. He had never splinched himself.

Lily nodded, James smiled, and then Harry smiled, feeling the lead leak away from his stomach again. Lily was not one to remain angry for long.

"Okay," she said finally. "But go and change now because people will be arriving shortly. And don't forget to put the tennis balls back to normal, or at least immobilize them. Happy Birthday, sweetheart." Lily hugged and kissed her son on the forehead, then sent him into the house where he ran upstairs to shower and change. James remained behind, watching his wife carefully. She had that guarded look in her eyes again.

The way her eyes worried tirelessly, even though her face had lost none of the beauty he had seen in her all of those years ago. He had remembered her hate and fire, and then how they had become friends, slowly. And how he had wanted to always catch the attention of the charming but equally fiery red-head, Lily Evans.

"Lily," he said quietly, picking up his broomstick and sitting down in the seat opposite the one she had occupied. She sat down again, watching him now too. She faced the ivy-laced garden fence and he the wall of the cottage. "We cannot protect him forever." She nodded in understanding. "The wizarding world could not have hoped for a better hero."

And with those words, James Potter kissed her lightly and followed the path his son had cast into the house.

* * *

People began arriving forty-five minutes later, as Harry was peeling the potatoes beside his mother and James was summoning chairs into the garden for guests. Not many people knew that James was not overly fond of the spiders and bats that sometimes resided in their loft. Several of the chairs were already out when the first person knocked politely on the door, then entered the house, grinning. A tall man dressed in a plain shirt and velvet vest with jeans, dark hair hanging to his shoulder and grey eyes that were nothing like boring.

Sirius Black, James' best friend and Harry's godfather shouted a jovial greeting and closed the door behind him before slipping into the kitchen. It was James who reached him first, grinning also, and clapping Sirius' hand in a laughing handshake. Harry noticed the age fade away for a few moments, and remembered the photos he had seen of his father and Sirius when they were his age. But then the moment passed and Sirius was shaking Harry's hand.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," he said and barked a laugh. "Can't believe it. You're a man now! Fully grown! How old does that make us!"

"Old enough," said James.

Just then, Lily shuffled across the room, smiling widely at Sirius and chewing on a slice of red pepper. She pushed the whole thing into her mouth and then hugged Sirius with a greater force than he anticipated or maybe even wanted. Lily didn't seem to care. She let go and then they all stood there in the entrance of the kitchen, smiling.

"Merlin's beard, Lily that smells delicious," Sirius announced, talking of the scent that was emanating from the numerous pots and pans stationed at the stove, magical spoons and whisks mixing without instruction. He was absolutely correct. It was rich and warm, while also refreshing from the plain scents that summer food sometimes brought. Lily blushed and asked,

"How are you, Sirius?"

"Wonderful thanks! I haven't been up to much - final touches to number twelve and all - but it's good to get out of the house." He barked another laugh and James grinned. They began the migration to the kitchen table. Harry remained standing as there were only three seats and he didn't want to get in the way; there was no need to summon another chair.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was a tall and dark house where Sirius lived in London. It was place where he grew up and abhorred it due to both the people and the far from normal decorative state. Teamed with house-elf heads and screaming portraits, it wasn't entirely inhabitable - especially when the portrait in question screeched at Sirius for leaving the 'noble house of black' when he was younger. Nor, Sirius was attempting to make it fully-inhabitable and operational as a normal house. Less terrifying and dingy.

Sirius had been living there since his mother had died several years ago, but came to Godric's Hollow during festivities and any chance he was invited. He was a cheerful presence mostly, but if things were not going his way at Number Twelve he could turn sardonic. Harry had heard his parents arguing one evening, quietly as they did, about how they should just ask Sirius to live at Godric's Hollow.

"How's it looking?" James asked, resting his elbows on the table and turning to his best friend. Harry leaned against the wall casually. "The painting? Is it gone?"

Sirius shook his head in amusement, sighed and said,

"Had to call in reinforcements; old friends who found their way into the ministry. It was absolute madness. Two or three days in took in the end. Several of us all trying different things - even using bloody muggle attempts like cutting around it!" He grinned at the memories rushing through his mind. Harry imagined the small hallway crowded with seven or eight people and the screeching painting. It sounded like mayhem, but Sirius didn't get out too much at the moment so he supposed that anything was good fun. "Then Tilbury had the idea to do a protection circle around it. We all paired up, one doing the curse and one the protection spell unanimously and amazingly it worked." He smirked. "Madness."

"But she's gone?" asked James, squeezing Sirius' shoulder.

"She's gone," he confirmed.

Thankfully, there would be no more screaming of 'blood traitor' and 'mudblood' and 'filth in the noble house of black'. No one had been fond of it. Except maybe the old house else, Kreacher, who relished in his mistress' orders and shrieks.

Just then, the doorbell rang again. Harry muttered something to say he would get it before either of his parents could move in reaction. James led Sirius out into the sunlit garden and Lily went back to her magical pots and pans. The left floorboard creaked as Harry reached the door, twisted the handle and hauled it open, stepping out of the way.

"Harry!"

A collective shout of excitable voices hit Harry with the force of a freight train.

Standing before him was the group Harry had wanted to see the most. A group of nine people, grinning broadly at him, seven of them with flaming red hair, one with slinky and silvery hair, and then Hermione with her bushy brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail. The Weasley's, with Fleur and Hermione. Mr and Mrs Weasley standing at the back of the group, Bill and Fleur - soon to be married - beside the twins - Fred and George in matching dragon-skin jackets - and then Ron, Hermione and Ginny.

Ginny. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. She was beautiful. Always pretty and smart and so sarcastic and funny.

The group bustled into the small hallway of the Potter's house, knocking into the walls and the umbrella stand to Harry's right.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," said Mrs Weasley, pulling him in for an enormous hug in which he was momentarily suffocated before being released. "Percy should be along a bit later; he's just dealing with some ministry requests. And Charlie's just been shipped a flock of Ecuadorian Eidel-Puffs from South Poland. Nightmare! He says he is sorry he couldn't make it." She smiled gently and planted a kiss on his forehead before shuffling away to help his mother in the kitchen. Mr Wealsey wished him a happy birthday, shook his hand and followed his wife where the sunlight was flooding the room.

"Don't mind us Harry," said Fred.

"We're here for the cake," said George. Then they grinned, glanced at each other and disapparated into the garden to shrieks and laughs.

"They've been doing that a lot," muttered Ron. "Extra cocky now they're successful."

Fred and George owned a joke shop in Diagon Alley, the popular Wizarding shopping street in London, hidden from muggles by the pub which it was found through; the Leaky Cauldron. The twins had discovered their niche in their sixth year and began distributing 'Weasley Wizard Wheezes' sweets - sweets to get you out of class (puking pastilles, nosebleed nougat, fainting fancies) - until they left school in their seventh to sell their products. And business was roaring.

Bill Weasley, the oldest brother of the family, shook Harry's hand and wished him a happy birthday. Fleur, his wife to be, kissed him on the cheeks and forehead while Ginny looked on furiously and flicked her hair in mimic. The sight made Harry laugh and Fleur tittered off into the garden behind Bill.

Almost as immediately as the pair slipped out into the garden, Ginny and Hermione crashed into him in an awkward hug. Harry rolled his eyes as he stumbled a little and Ron scratched his ear. The two boys then clapped each other briefly on the back and Ron said,

"Happy Birthday, mate," grinning widely at him. Harry grinned too, beyond happy now that three of his favourite people were here with him.

Over the next hour or so, several people arrived and joined the hubbub in the garden of the Godric's Hollow cottage. Remus Lupin and his wife, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Albus Dumbledore - though very briefly - and a couple of other order members. Harry hadn't wanted a party so the Potter's collectively decided to have a get together.

Lily's food was, of course, delicious. The group of friends ate the mounds of it, sat in comfortable conjured chairs around the extended table and across the grassy lawn. Pile upon pile of sausages, burgers and chips and crisps and sauces drizzled over the delectables. Scatterings of salads, spiced meets and salsa in bursts of colour contrasting with the smorgasbord of home-made jams, spread over bread with a multitude of seeding. Thick gravy or cranberry sauce. Eggs, toast and sweet treats made from sugar. Conversation roared on into the afternoon, fuelled by the good food and cold beverage options: butterbeer, pumpkin juice or the burning taste of fire whiskey.

Rebeus Hagrid, Hogwarts game-keeper, arrived as the sun began to set below the lower levels of leaves of the beech trees. He joined in the festivities as though he had been there all along and was soon singing loudly along with the others.

Harry heard many levels of talk though the gentle hubbub - how Fleur now had to cook the stake a little more raw, she didn't mind, and how Remus and Tonks were going to have a child, though Lupin seemed less than pleased. Harry briefly wondered why when he heard Ginny murmur something to him and squeezed his hand. Hermione and Ron were arguing so Harry felt a little safer talking. Not that he wanted to.

"Are you worried," she asked. Harry didn't have to ask to know what she was talking about; his fight with Voldemort.

Was he worried? He hadn't really thought about it a whole bunch.

He shook his head slightly and smiled weakly. Her eyes twinkled and she squeezed his hand again. Harry sighed despite himself. He watched the crowd around the garden, their laughter filling it, and he felt a swell of love for the family he had. But then he realised something terrible which chilled him to the bone, in spite of the warn summer air.

If he lost against Voldemort, they would all die.

"I'm going to get a glass of water," Harry said to Ginny and she shuffled sideways so he could stand, not pausing to question him. He needed some space and crept into the kitchen to find a stack of cups. He may as well get some water. However, that wasn't what stopped him. Harry heard the distinct sound of voices echoing through the kitchen. His parents.

"He didn't come, James," said Lily, a trace of anxiety in her voice. James hushed her gently.

"Come on Lily, did you really expect Snivellus to come?"

"Don't call him that," she bit.

"He hates both me and Harry and many others in our company tonight, and he is not exactly popular himself either."

"I just thought he might." She paused. "For me." Harry knew his father would not like that. The fact that Snape might do something only for James' wife was not any sort of comfort to him at all. If anything, it was a way for James to dislike Snape even further. His hatred for Snape grew for a moment until his wife voiced her true worry. "You don't think he's with _him_ do you?"

James Potter sighed heavily, but not in frustration this time.

"If he isn't with Dumbledore then Severus is mostly like to be with Voldemort instead."

It wasn't news to Harry so it certainly wasn't surprising the fact that Snape consorted with the Dark Lord himself. But the fact that he knew it was happening didn't lessen Harry's unease at the whole situation; it didn't make him hate Snape any less or agree with his father any less about Snape. It chilled Harry to hear that someone so close to his family was with Voldemort at any time of day. But it wasn't the man himself who caused Harry's occasional mounting anxiety, it was what he would do to Harry's family.

Voldemort had left Harry alone as a baby so that he could prove that he truly was the better Wizard and that he would not be taunted into submission by an infant barely over a year of age. And that was one of the many worrying things about the situation. At the end of the year, after his full education, Harry would fight Voldemort and he would lose. Harry knew that and he knew that everyone else knew that. He was not a brilliant Wizard like Dumbledore or Voldemort, he was average. He had a good hand at Defence Against the Dark Arts - much to his father's chagrin - but that would not be enough. He was no match for Voldemort.

Hearing Snape was with him made Harry a little sick with anger. Double crossing, side-stepping Snape. A foul man with dark, greasy hair and a hooked nose. That man was unfortunately one of Lily's best friends. He had never come for a family meal though, always to Lily's disappointment. Harry thought it was because of Snape's utter disgust with him and his father, which he obviously found insulting. James' and Snape's past was of an unrelenting hatred - much like, as someone once said, Harry and Draco Malfoy. Malfoy; the obnoxious Slytherin boy who loved to tease and taunt anyone he felt was below him. So, everyone

Snape held a different branch of hatred though.

Despite Dumbledore constantly claiming Snape's allegiance to their side, Harry had always been doubtful and wary of the man. Anyone who consorted with Voldemort seemed to be sucked in to his world of darkness; Quirrel, Wormtail, and so many once-innocents. People who maybe had wanted to reason and to see the man Tom Riddle had become, but either became enamoured with his power or was dragged in by threatens and blackmails. Surely Snape was one of them too. Maybe he was, in fact, a spy for the other side.

"At least it's for the good of the future," Lily said gently to her husband. "Severus has the knowledge on the inside. He can help us - and I know that he would, help us prepare for what is coming." Having known Snape for so long and believing in him for so long, of course Lily Potter was the one to believe Snape was something good amongst the black. Unlike the rest of their company this evening. To her, Snape was somewhat kind. Somewhat human.

There was a pause from the pair of them. Maybe an argument had ensued, or one of those quiet agreements that comes from people who have been together a while. Whatever it was, Harry didn't feel like hearing any more. He began to walk away, empty cup still in hand.

"Lily, we've done the best we can," Harry heard his father say, barely above a whisper, but he still heard. And the words still stung. "How can we train our son, who has only just become a man, to fight the greatest dark wizard of all time?"

Harry managed to catch the last words of his mother before they were out of earshot completely.

"I don't know, James," she sighed.

A deep aching in Harry's chest and stomach seemed to suddenly absorb him. If his parents didn't believe in him, then how could he believe in himself?

Dusk slowly turned to evening around the party. Charms were cast to muffle noise and allow the festivities to continue. Hagrid swayed jubilantly to the music which he sand as Fred and George laughed along with their brother, Bill, about some goblin antics - Bill worked at the goblin-run wizard's bank, Gringotts - while Fleur watched in amusement. Percy hadn't turned up.

Mrs Weasley and Lily were chatting quietly about the flowers growing profusely across the garden fence, while James, Lupin, Sirius and others were talking in loud voices, reminiscing over the years of the order and how everything had changed since then. Harry watched carefully as Tonks walked over to Lily and made the joke or turning her hair to a bright shade of red too.

Hermione and Ginny were saying something about cats. Ron scowled at them and turned to Harry instead.

"Blimey mate, what a party," he said, grinning a little. He glanced at Hermione but quickly looked away again. "How's it feel finally becoming a man?"

"No different from yesterday," said Harry, taking a swig of butterbeer and smiling wryly.

"Here," said Ron, reaching inside his jacket pocket for a package. It was small and tightly paked using spell-o-tape and bulging in various places over the surface of the object.

"Thanks."

Harry set down his butterbeer and began to pull apart the wrappings. Inside was a bundle of sweets, treats and a few Zonkos pranks.

"Hey, you're putting us out of business," said Fred. Ron snorted, looking at their jackets as they approached. It was quite clear that the twins were really not missing out on anything at all. And Harry knew that Ron wouldn't like to be seen giving out his brothers things so much - sure, it was great that they were doing well, but Ron definitely wanted to be an... How did he put it? An independent man. Harry suspected that meant that Ron wanted to be out of his brother's shadows for good.

"To Harry, from us," said George, handing over a lightly wrapped package, which was perfectly neat and cuboid shaped. Inside was a collection of Dark Arts Weasley products, including Instant Darkness powder, and a joke handbook on 'How to Deal with Dreadful Death Eaters - The A-Z guide on Angry, to Stupid to _Zee Plain Ridiculous_!'. "Pelt that at old Voldy and he won't see a thing!" he said, referring to the powder which glittered in Harry's hand, midnight black. Harry couldn't help but laugh. The idea of Voldemort not being able to attack because of the Instant Darkness was wonderfully ludicrous.

"I almost wish he'd tried to kill me as a baby," Harry said to Ron when the twins had gone to tease the girls about something. Ron looked sideways at his best friend, considering him for a moment. "Would have made this a whole lot easier."

"You don't know that," said Ron. "Look, if Voldemort had decided to kill to you as a baby, then all of this would be different. I don't know mate, I'd be a bit relieved." Harry looked at his friend, perplexed. They rarely spoke about this, but Ron seemed invested at this moment in time. "He's dragging it out, to prove he's a bigger enemy. Killing a baby... That's weak. He's prolonging your death."

"I wish he wouldn't."

"Listen mate, he's given you a shot." Harry tried to watch Ron think it all over in the dark as the moon crept on surreptitiously to the point in the sky, lighting the scene with it's silver rays. "Even if it's one millimetre in diameter, 3000 miles up in the air, the ball on fire and is giving you three seconds to shoot using only your feet. It's something. You've got the chance to make this a Voldemort-free world."

"That sounds bloody difficult," laughed Harry. Ron laughed with him. "Yeah, I guess. Just, sometimes I wish it wasn't me."

"Better you than anyone else. I'd rather have you saving the world than Neville Longbottom." Both laughed again shortly, and then Ron made his final remark on the matter of Harry's possible doom. "You're the chosen one. You've got the scar to prove it. Which means you can do it."

"You're positive all of a sudden," Harry noticed, wondering if it was the butterbeer - but only briefly.

"A new thing I'm trying," said Ron and they both huffed laughs yet again, the worries slipping almost completely from Harry's mind.

But he couldn't help but think that this was the calm before the inevitable storm.

* * *

 **Longer than I anticipated... But I just kept writing... I hope you appreciate! Please, let me know what you think!**


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